


Goldilocks

by Fanfreluche



Series: Dresden - Montana - Berlin [7]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Nineties, Anal Sex, Edgeplay, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Masturbation, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfreluche/pseuds/Fanfreluche
Summary: Autumn of 1993. Back in Montana, Arthur gets told a bedtime story, which he interrupts, many times...
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston (mentioned), Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Dresden - Montana - Berlin [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1456312
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	Goldilocks

**Author's Note:**

> Finally done! Hope you'll enjoy :)
> 
> Some Dom/subbery in the next part, which will probably be finished in 2021… :|
> 
> Music in the background is in bold italics.

“You’ve been quiet,” Arthur murmured, ghosting idle fingertips along the nape of John’s neck, probably still sore from the earlier grip. “Something wrong?”

John grunted the sort of ‘nah’ in response that only convinced Arthur something was indeed wrong. Well, he had a notion what it could be, but if what he suspected was true, he wanted to hear it from John’s mouth. They had to talk about it. 

“Tell me,” he insisted, slightly adding to the pressure of the touch, in the meantime brushing away long strands of moist black hair from Marston’s brow with his other hand. “I don’t like to see you like this.”

“Like what?” Marston’s warm skin rubbed naked against Arthur’s when he moved to lift his head from his chest, heart beating in a measured, familiar rhythm.

“Sullen, mute, grumpy…”

“I ain’t…” John protested, lowering his eyes and resting his head back on Arthur’s shoulder. “That’s what I’m like half the time, nothing strange about that.”

“It is, when I see you after a couple of years and all I see is this.”

John muttered incoherently. Impossible. Stubborn. Arthur sighed. 

“Is it cause of him?”

Affirmative silence. 

“You don’t like him?”

A few more minutes and: “Can’t trust him.”

“Why not?” He shifted a hand to lightly stroke the boy’s spine. “He’s been nice to you.”

“When you’re there, yeah...”

A pause. Arthur raised an eyebrow. Voice wary. “Something happen when I wasn’t around?” 

John huffed and puffed, and finally lifted his head again to stare Arthur in the eyes. “Asked me what my _five-year plan_ was for the band.”

Arthur chuckled. Could almost hear it in Dutch’s voice, and could certainly guess why a question like that would piss off Marston. Hell, it’d piss him off too. He took a drag from the joint John was holding up for him. “That all?”

John’s silence made him wonder if the conversation was now over, until he began speaking again, telling Arthur how he thought he had changed since their last meeting. Not acting too differently, but wasn’t quite himself either, seemed preoccupied most the time. Listening to the remainder of the whispered words, Arthur’s brow creased in concentration, quietly as he breathed, caressing John’s hair again, softly, softly. He wasn’t surprised to hear this since, to be honest with himself, he’d noticed a change in his own behaviour too, or maybe his way of thinking as of late. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on, so he’d done exactly that: not thought about it much. Hoping any bothersome implications would disappear after a while, as they usually did. But if the change was pronounced enough to affect John, perhaps he should consider a bit of reconnaissance.

“And all this troubles you?” He asked once John had stopped speaking.

“Not really, hmm, neh…”

Then why are you so fucking moody all the time, he almost asked, and at the same time couldn’t help but wonder if living together for such a long time had synchronised their temper frequency, so that it wasn’t John who was being mercurial and was probably just mirroring his own mood fluctuations. Because as far as he could tell, John hadn’t changed much. He’d grown up a bit, yeah, what with the new baby toddling about and all the responsibility that came with Abigail and Jack moving to the ranch… But all in all he was pretty much the same, up to the angle of his body as he lay next to him, naked, sweaty from the recent fuck session. Which had been great. It always was, sex with John was never not great. The way he could just let go, it had an impressively calming effect on Arthur, the way it made him believe he could escape himself and all his rubbish for even a short while. He had missed it, the act of letting go together with Jim-John Milton-Marston. Arthur pressed a rotten-sweet kiss and three on top of his boy’s head. 

“Why are you smiling?” John looked up at him suspiciously, smoke snaking out of the corner of his curled mouth, pawing at his chest like a tiny kitten tired of grooming.

Make that a kiss and ten plus a few licks. “Thinking I might be up for another round.” By the time he’d plucked the joint from Marston’s fingers, his lips were on the man’s throat, seat of that lovely voice.

“What were you up to in Berlin?” Hoarse laughter. “Wearing a chastity belt or something?”

“Close enough.”

Arthur groaned to remember, but didn’t want to waste time contemplating, the reason(s) why he had had no sex for the past eight months, which was by no means an unheard of occurrence, but under the circumstances had been very frustrating indeed. So much so that when on the first afternoon of his return John climbed up the ladder to the attic - where he was sleeping during his stay - he hadn’t been able to resist bending him over and taking him on the floor, thoroughly, until they were both spent, jetlag be damned. 

And now he wanted more of the same. So he rolled over on his side, kissing Marston on the cheeks, throat, chest all the while. Then withdrew, looking at him with the unspoken question lodged in his gaze. John’s half-smirk, revealing the jagged tip of a canine, meant the world to him just then. 

In a moment he was all over him again, mouth and fingers, gently, gently, unlike their violent ride earlier in the night. He wanted to take his time, lick those soft, cracked lips that still had a trace of black lipstick smeared on them, tasting of dark chocolate and tobacco. And down there, once he got there, slowly, slowly, an entirely different mixture of flavours: leather and metal and salt. 

A low rumbling sound left his chest to feel John’s fingers clutching at his hair when he took the head of his hardening cock in his mouth. Wouldn’t suck him yet, only allowed his tongue to twirl around the glans once or twice, swipe across the slit, pressing the boy’s hips down with the weight of a forearm so he wouldn’t be able to buck into his mouth when the need made itself known. And oh, it did. He could feel him trying to push up and writhing and moaning now that no other outlet was left. He loved them, Marston’s raspy gasps, and looking up at him, the indefinite colour of his eyes, moist with want. He didn’t break eye-contact when he took him in deeper, still holding loosely, as much as possible, the boy wasn’t small, he was proud to note. 

A grin bloomed on Arthur’s mouth, again as much as possible, as he watched John closing his eyes and throwing his head back on the pillow, the grip of his hands tightening in his hair. Running his tongue from the base of the shaft to the tip, he reached up with his left hand to tweak and pinch a nipple, then the other; merciful distractions. 

A trail of kisses and bitelings dotted Marston’s inner thighs before Arthur pulled up slightly to watch him, languid grin plastered on his face. What a sight he was, John, shamelessly open, breaths hitched and ragged, chest and cheeks glistening a feverish-red… His eyes, up to then still closed, shot open when Arthur squeezed the fingers of his right hand around the base of the boy’s erection. He hummed in amusement to spy the pearl drop forming along the tiny slit. The hum morphed into a chuckle when a black-lacquered fingernail was lowered to the tip to gather the precum then change course towards his lips. He licked the offering with delight, and continued licking and nibbling on the finger till John pulled it away after a particularly sharp bite. 

“Fucked any groupies?” Arthur asked, stroking the John’s cock in a leisurely tempo now. 

“Few. Not ours though...”

“Did you remember to use protection or are we expecting mini-Marstons to pop up all over the country in the near future?”

“World, not country…”

“Oh?” Arthur smiled a wicked smile, increasing the intensity and speed of the manual movements at the same time. “Didn’t know you had that sort of ambition.”

“You?” John hissed, fingers of both hands digging into Arthur’s thighs. “You fucked anyone or are you just taking it now?”

Arthur leaned forward and kissed Marston’s lower abdomen, below his navel. “What do you think?”

“I think…” John grasped him by the hair and pulled his head up, hips canting in a shallow, desperate rhythm. “Think nowadays you’re just taking it, like a good bitch.” And slapped him, hard.

He laughed, dark and low, licking the corner of his lips as he contemplated just how rigorously he should put Marston back in his place, like he craved, obviously. His patience seemed to have baffled John - all the better - who’d lifted his arm for a second time when Arthur seized it by the wrist and together with the other wrist tied firmly above his head to the bed with a swiftly extracted pillowcase. Marston’s hair tie he secured around his balls and the base of his now even more painfully strapped erection. He left the boy to curse and thrash on his own for a while, himself searching the other end of the attic. He found what he was looking for, then returned to the bed to push John’s legs apart and make room for himself to sit. 

“What’s tha…” John let out a choked moan a second later, back arching. “Arthur!”

“Guess.”

“Is that- Ah!”

Arthur dragged the guitar pick once more along the slippery length, smiling contently to register the shiver running through the body sprawled under him, and the another, and another, until John was begging him to let him come, promising ten blowjobs in return.

“Hundred!”

“No.”

He teased him some more, but kissed him too occasionally, here and there, on his favourite spots, the last of which was the angry purple tip. He sucked it a bit and decided he was done playing with the pick which he threw away, laughing to hear Marston’s sigh of relief. 

The boy was eager when he fucked him, unhurriedly, in missionary. Wanted to kiss his face. Take his time with him. He’d only recognised the significance of slow lovemaking in Berlin when trying to recall some appetising categories of John-related memories he’d come to realise that the most vivid recollections belonged to the time when they hadn’t been completely drunk or stoned and when there had been little to no rush. 

He was in no rush now.

The boy was beautiful when he fucked him, gently, as he rode him. A black curtain covered more than half of his scarred face, but he could still make out the shimmer in his eyes. He’d always marvelled at how kind Marston’s eyes looked. He couldn’t stop looking at them now, cursing each moment whenever he was forced to close his own from the immense pleasure of having his cock hugged in the tightest of grips, over and over… Oh… The hardness of John’s muscular abdomen, the rubbery feel of his nipples when he pinched them, his quiet moans washing over him, the synthetic taste of nail polish when he kissed his fingers - sometimes he wondered what he had done to deserve this happiness.

It all felt like a dream. 

“Abigail likes him.”

Arthur blinked his eyes open. “Hmm?” He must have fallen asleep for a few seconds only since he could still sense the fine buzz of orgasm coursing through his nerves. “Who, Dutch?”

“Mm.”

“Well, he’s a charming fellow,” He yawned. “Been great with Jack, taught Rufus not to piss in the house… Gave a Walkman to Uncle, which is, in my humble opinion, the best of all said feats.”

“Pisses me off! I’ve been milking cows every day since she moved in, and all I get is more moaning and bitching and-”

“Can’t expect her to thank you for feeding yourself, Marston.”

Still, he could sympathise with him. Abi was a nice girl, but too bossy too often.

“And with the baby, she hardly has time to practice, let alone rehearse, and can’t even talk to her about touring, now that we’re finally getting somewhere… I mean, she’s already, what, a year and a half?”

“You’re asking me? It’s your kid.”

“Not a tiny baby anymore, is what I mean. How much attention does she need!? Just leave her in a corner to crawl for herself… That’s what I do on my shift and she’s always cheerful!”

Arthur listened patiently, if half-awake, while John opened up for the first time about his life with Abigail and the changes the band - Procyonidae - had gone through: how he couldn’t get along with the new drummer, that the new keyboard player wasn’t good enough, his worry that Abi might never return to the band, and so on. Arthur didn’t know what to say. He wanted to give John some reassurance but his fears appeared to be well-founded. They’d never been a typical sort of band anyway, and he was still surprised they’d managed to go as far as they had. Usually he was pretty blunt in voicing his opinion about these kinds of problems, but for now he held back and changed the subject instead.

“So, how did it happen? The new baby I mean. You never told me.”

“What do you think?” John took a deep puff from a newly lit cigarette. “We got drunk. Was celebrating being asked to do an opening act for the first time, and the others had passed out and…” He felt John shrugging. “Yeah.”

Arthur nodded. Pretty much how Jack was made too, if he recalled correctly. 

“How is it with you two now?”

He should have probably asked the question before they had sex… 

“Beats me... She wants us to pretend to be together for Jack’s sake, and the little one’s. Can’t tell if she wants more than pretending, with her it’s pretty likely. That sort of thing is definitely not my thing though, and we don’t talk about it either…”

Well, that was nothing new with John. Then again, Arthur was pretty crap at this sort of thing himself and couldn’t really blame or judge him for a lack of interpersonal skills. So he changed the subject, again. 

“What happened with Swanson?”

He actually quite liked the new drummer, Eagle Flies was his name, handsome fiery fellow… But could see why John might clash with him personality wise. He was a bit confused also as to why the young man had joined the band while Abigail, who’d been the drummer, was still active and asked John for a clarification.

“To be perfectly honest, I’ve no clue what happened with Swanson.” John explained, voice gradually growing heavy from tiredness. “One day he just suddenly sobered up and bid us all farewell. Think he’s in the missionary business now. No idea where though. After he left, Abigail switched to the keyboard. Then Eagle Flies joined us.” 

“Why? Abi and the keyboard, I mean.”

“Yanni.” When Arthur remained expectantly quiet, John added: “This Greek pian-”

“I know damn well who Yanni is!” Arthur chuckled. “But Abigail?”

“She’s got a huge crush on him. Dunno why… She’d been taking piano lessons from Swanson, and when the old man left she said she wanted to be on the keyboard, that we look for a drummer instead. Hey, I think I know why she likes Dutch now!”

“Don’t. John.” 

Arthur growled a warning for the benefit of a devilishly-amused looking Marston before he could give voice to what was on his mind. It didn’t stop the boy from laughing like a maniac and shifting to shakily sit astride him, a move which Arthur intercepted mid-way by clasping his hips and rolling them both over, pinning John to the mattress. He didn’t think he had it in him that night for a third round, but he could tease the bugger a bit for sure. They didn’t have much to do in the morning, after all, which was spent mostly in general laziness, with them all saving their energy for a party that same evening at the Adler Ranch... 

“No, no!”

“No, no, no, no!”

**_No, no, no, no…_ **

Whoever had convinced Sadie to throw a party to celebrate her rodeo championship deserved an award, or so reckoned Arthur in his blissfully inebriated state, high on blow and on dancing with Mary-Beth Gaskill, well, if it could be called dancing, more like a rope-jumping marathon with no ropes. After a mild spin to _Tight Fittin’ Jeans_ , the pair welcomed the change in genre and lighting by dancing to the same techno song on repeat for at least half an hour, for the last ten minutes of which he had come to the conclusion that MBG was in fact a very pretty girl, with pretty blue eyes, shiny brown hair bouncing all over her shoulders and round firm breasts, hmmm… He might have done something about the way this all made him feel if she hadn’t been taken, Arthur thought to himself, too drunk to feel guilty or remember his own complicated situation. There must have been some sort of masculine pride assuring him that she was returning his gaze in a meaningful way, and even felt a little smug when Tilly suddenly materialised between the two of them and swept Mary-Beth away. Shame, it was just getting nice and snug.

He wasn’t left with much time to lament the loss of his lovely companion, however. Just as the song changed, Arthur felt himself being drawn backwards till his ass was flush against a - definitely male - body. John? Dutch? He didn’t care and continued dancing, or rather grinding against the already half-hard cock pressed to his backside, and it was when the man pulled back, infinitesimally, that he realised it was Mr Van der Linde. A tiny ripple of heat in his lower belly and he reflected idly if he should react in any way to the fact that he was still being punished for refusing to play by the rules... 

It had all started when Dutch decided it would be such a great notion for him to teach Arthur proper German, cause: ‘How can you exist in a country without speaking the local language? Typical American attitude...’ Despite his dislike of stereotypification, at first Arthur wasn’t against the idea. It was a nice suggestion, he reckoned, until he came across the dreaded cases and determined that this was not the language for him, and yet somehow didn’t have the heart to inform Dutch of his decision, instead resolved to make as many excuses as he could to prevent his education, hoping in time the whole enterprise would be forgotten. It was not. They argued endlessly, with Dutch complaining about how Arthur wasn’t taking the lessons seriously, and Arthur increasingly growing fed up with the strict regimen, which evolved to include lessons on punctuality and respect for- Gah! It got so bad in the end that during what turned out to be the final lesson, Arthur threw the exercise book out the window, and Dutch stood up from his chair and left the room, and the house, without a word. They didn’t talk or see each other for the eight months that followed, so Arthur was pretty surprised to see Dutch at the airport on the day he was leaving for the US. He hadn’t expected him to still honour their plan to go together. They did speak on the plane, and he was kindly - and unnecessarily - informed that there would be no ‘intimacy’ until he apologised and resumed the lessons. Arthur gave a non-committal grunt in response and here they were now, bodies almost touching but not really, the only concrete contact in the form of Dutch’s fingers digging firmly into his hips, determined to keep him at a manageable distance. Well, fuck…

Heart beat, beat, beating…

His mind made up, he turned around unhurriedly and pulled Dutch close, back of his neck cradled in the palm of his hand, made a move to kiss him but withdrew immediately as he saw his eyes widening and sensed the grip on his waist tightening. Instead he gave Dutch’s earlobe a little tweak, winked at him before walking to the bar to make himself a drink. 

It had been a stupid move, in hindsight; there were people at the party who didn’t know. In fact, only a handful in the community were aware of his preference in men. But this only occurred to him two days later when the two of them were miles away from the ranch, Dutch riding Wystan and Arthur Boadicea who seemed to have recovered some of her wild mischief during his absence. 

September was not an ideal time for camping, but it was for hunting, and for enjoying the beauty of nature. Arthur would have rather shown Dutch a summer spectacle with all its pastel yellows and whites, cool lavender and the bright and deep greens that made life worth living, but still good fortune was with them in that the autumn colours had taken over now and the landscape was plentiful in a variety of golds and oranges and reds, peppered with interludes of dark green. And the best part: not another human soul could be seen. Animals they saw quite a few at first, and increasingly more, the more they progressed into the wilderness. Rabbits, bighorn sheep, coyotes, a spectral owl or two at night. These sightings along with the rifles and shotguns they’d brought with them, for hunting as well as protection from bears and other predators, provided the main topic of discussion throughout the ride. 

Opportunity for the actual hunt came a day or so later. Silently as they stalked onwards, guns loaded, Arthur listened to his own heartbeat, calm but pronounced. His hearing always improved during the hunt, every footstep a clap of thunder, constantly keeping him on the edge. Not that Dutch was loud; no, he could tell he was a seasoned hunter from the careful placement of his feet and other factors he chose not to pay too much mind to because, well, they reminded him of his bedroom manners... It felt good, having him by his side, quite a different experience than hunting on his own which he enjoyed immensely nonetheless.

A rustle.

A half-wary whiff and a snort.

They both stopped abruptly. There it was, he could see it, and gone again, and there again, and in silent agreement the men separated, one to the left and one to the right, crouched, careful, focused. At some point Arthur lost all awareness of the sounds associated with the other man’s presence. Just him now and the buck, and so single-minded he’d become in his pursuit that he didn’t even smirk to acknowledge he’d chosen the right direction, which in this case was the left.

He didn’t miss the shot, but he wounded the animal, which was regrettable. He never liked torturing the creature. Quickly as he could, he slit the animal’s throat with a hunting knife, sharpened the night before they left for the trip. The person who’d gifted it to him was at his side the next moment, observing but not participating as he proceeded to skin the cadaver. His unseen, but felt, gaze was fixed on him. It made him anxious, like he was suddenly closer in species to the slaughtered animal than to the man watching them. 

“Want its head for trophy?”

Language was a good reminder; an animal doesn’t speak.

“You shot it. You should keep it.”

“A gift?” He turned to look at him, wiping the back of his hand on his brow, blood mixing with dirt and beads of sweat. 

Dutch was smiling. “You already gave me a rabbit tail. That’s enough.”

That was years ago. He was surprised he’d kept it, and the realisation somewhat lessened the irritation of having his gift rejected. Arthur shrugged and went back to work. Knowing Dutch, he probably didn’t want to get his hands dirty, carrying the head back to their camp. He’d give the skull to John, he decided. The boy could make some sort of macabre headdress with it for his next gig...

By the third night, they were camping near a river, in the depths of wild nature. Fire blazed warmly, Dutch checked his Nokia, and Arthur defeathered some birds they had shot that afternoon. 

“No signal?”

“None.” Dutch sighed and put the device back inside his saddlebag. 

“Just as well,” Arthur nodded. “Can’t understand what’s so interesting about cell phones.”

He was treated to an unamused side-glance that said all he didn’t need to hear. Thankfully Dutch didn’t revive the argument about how he should get a cell phone, set up an electronic mail, learn working with computers, starting with buying one. Who in their right mind wasted time glaring at a screen!? Arthur didn’t even watch television. Sometimes he wished he lived in the previous century… At the same time, even though he didn’t speak about it, he could tell Dutch was worried about the club. 

“I’m sure Hosea takes care of everything just fine.”

“Won’t be surprised if he turns it into a theatre house by the time I’m back.”

“Musicals only...”

Dutch grimaced. 

“Here, help me pluck these, it’ll take your mind off the club.” Arthur handed him a grouse, and waited a few minutes before asking: “How did you convince Matthews to invest in the club in the first place?”

A flash of the trademark playful grin and: “Arthur, I can convince anyone to do anything.”

“Not everyone.”

“You’ll come round. A bit of discipline and you’ll be fine, already there are improvements, despite several unfortunate setbacks. Which reminds me…” Dutch reached with his right hand and held a bit of Arthur’s forelock between the index and middle fingers. “Your hair is getting long.”

“Leave it, don’t like barbers, they talk too much.” He pushed the hand away, moved his gaze to the fire before turning back to Dutch, now with an added glint of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Here’s a tip for you, I’m the type who responds better to encouragement.”

“You’re the type who gets depressed when they’re praised.” Dutch remarked casually, sipping some beer, passing the bottle to Arthur. As an afterthought, he added: “Depends who gives it though, I suppose.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, downed a few gulps of beer, and placed the naked bird in a tin bowl in front of him, not exactly convinced by Dutch’s evaluation. He liked praise as much as any other person. He just didn’t know how to- 

“Doesn’t mean I like punishment,” He objected, rather out of the blue, bending sideways to pick a cigarette packet from his jacket. He’d been trying to quit but sometimes it was just... needed.

Dutch’s eyebrows knit in contemplation. “That’s very much up for debate. And you certainly do like to be challenged.” A pause. “That’s why you like John.”

“No,” Arthur responded almost too quickly, exhaling a thick ribbon of smoke. “I don’t like John because he is a challenge to like, which he can be at times.” Not just John though, everyone was. He liked many people and many things well enough, but rarely as objects of sustained, deep affection. Or attachment, whatever it was called nowadays. “I like John because he needs me.” 

“Isn’t that the greatest challenge for someone like you?”

“It’s not the only reason I want him.” He wiped his itching nose then set to marinating the meat for the next day with the added dexterity of channelled defensiveness. “Relationships aren’t that simple.”

“Thanks, I wasn’t aware.”

Arthur glared Dutch, chewing on the cigarette butt while wondering why he was even bothering justifying his love for Marston. “You sure you ain’t projecting your own craving for challenge on me?”

“Probably,” Dutch responded. “However, it takes one to know one.” 

He didn’t respond and instead wiped his hands cleanish with a handkerchief and began preparing that evening’s food which consisted of canned vegetables and smoked venison, from the same deer they’d hunted a few days back. It wasn’t easy talking to Dutch like this, he reflected in the meantime. In fact, it wasn’t easy talking to Dutch at most times, but at least in the city usually they were surrounded by distractions, or the possibility of finding one. Here, the most he could hope for was an unwelcome visitation by a bear. He looked around him: no bears of the animal kind around…

The silence as they ate pressed on him with the unbending might of bars in a prison cell. He found his thoughts drifting back to the months they had spent apart, newsless. A bitter relief, in a sense. Arthur had worked himself to exhaustion and generally found little trouble ignoring unsolicited memories. It was uncanny how easy it had been. He must have become so disciplined in keeping people away that it was second nature to him now. During the moments that he did think about him, he had imagined that if Dutch came to him, he would be welcoming. But the truth was he couldn’t even trust himself with that. Sometimes he thought perhaps it was better like that, and simultaneously had to gag the part of him that demanded to have a voice in the matter. Already he wasn’t listening anymore. Practice makes per-

“You know I-”

“I know, Ar-”

“Fine.” 

Having finished their meals, they slipped into their respective bedrolls, arranged around the campfire with the heads pointing but not too close to each other. The words, having left his mouth unbidden, left him worried. More often than not, spoken by him this sort of confession was a prologue to some unpleasant news having to do with the suggestion that the time had come for parting ways. At the moment, however, he felt strangely calm, sane. Well. It was probably all the rest he was getting now that he was back at the ranch without having to work, he reckoned, arms crossed behind his head as he traced constellations in the night sky.

“You smell good,” Dutch suddenly spoke, and was quiet for a moment before adding: “I like the taste of your skin when you’re freshly fucked. The curve of your cock too, it’s pretty.”

Arthur swallowed, slowly tilted his head and stared at him, wondering if he’d finally lost it. He’d expected Dutch to say nothing. Or at most a ‘thank you’.

“I think I can confidently say I’m familiar with your body now,” Dutch continued, sounding slightly hesitant, as if treading unfamiliar territory. “How it is pleased, what gives it pain. Can’t say the same about your mind yet. I came close many times, or so I thought, but then you slip away, change course. But Arthur, there are only so many things we can hide from one another.” 

He had to agree, even if it was something he feared to take note of. In his experience, interest ebbed when familiarity grew. It was a fault in him; the same curiosity that made him want to know more, compelled him to move on. Part of him thought he had hung on to Mary those early years because he knew she and her family would never think him good enough to let him in. John, on the other hand, was such a chaotic creature that there was no danger of ever getting to really know him. Why, even he didn’t know himself… Arthur figured it had something to do with the man always living in the present, simply going with the flow like a piece of driftwood, come boulder, come waterfall. 

With Dutch, there was always the mystery. Unreadable expression, and his thoughts when articulated so unpredictable. Madness, some people would call it. He was drawn to it all the same. Probably because he was just as moody. So there was an element of mutual understanding, though he’d noticed how more often than not they drew out the worst in each other. To the world they could be the most charming, civil, generous, gallant of characters, and to each other irreparably cruel. That was sort of the point. Maybe.

“You with me, Arthur?”

He realised he was staring at the stars again. “Sorry, was lost in thought. You were saying?” 

There was a delay before Dutch spoke again: “You’ve been distracted recently.”

“Marston said the same.” Arthur drawled, then chuckled softly. “He doesn’t like you being here.”

“Guessed as much… Pity, I find him quite, mmm, appealing.”

“Oh?” He twisted onto his right side and propped his chin on the back of a hand, an eyebrow shot up. “You want to fuck him?”

“I would like to, yes.” He wasn’t looking at him, but he could detect a trace of amusement in his voice. “Not here. You should bring him to Berlin.”

Arthur grinned. “John ain’t never gonna learn German, Dutch.”

“Oh, I know. I have other plans for him. But mostly, I’d like him to play at the club, and other clubs too. It would be an invaluable experience for him to play with some local bands.”

He could guess which band Dutch was referring to, but didn’t want to talk about it, until... 

“Micah’s, especially.”

“No.”

“I don’t understand what you have against the man,” Dutch sighed and shifted to face him now. “Holding a grudge this long because of some stupid prank he played at a party?” 

“Can’t I just not like the fellow?” Arthur argued, though he had plenty of reasons to dislike Bell, who had taken every opportunity to make life more difficult for him. He couldn’t even tell what his problem was. It wasn’t like he was the only person Dutch slept with… Probably he did it to satiate some need to feel superior. Still, for his part, he rather spend the rest of his life unaware of the man’s existence. “I doubt Marston will be able to stand him for even a second, let alone work with him.”

“Even so, it will be a good experience for his career.”

He doubted that as well, but didn’t argue any further. He would convey the message to Marston as neutrally as he could and leave it to him to determine what he should do. On the odd chance that John decided to go along with it, if - no, when, Micah deemed it necessary to play one of his sick jokes on the boy, then Arthur would have an excellent excuse to skin him alive, with much pleasure. Perfect.

“He is talented,” Dutch was saying. “No doubt about that, or I wouldn’t have bothered making the suggestion. At this moment, however, what he is doing is mostly copying others. He doesn’t realise it, but this is severely restricting his artistic expression. If he works with someone like Bell, who is doing the exact opposite, it might influence him positively, help his self-confidence. He’s already in his what, late-twenties?”

Arthur would have objected that it wasn’t unknown for musicians to become famous later in life, but it felt like an argument for the sake of arguing, so he let it go. 

“I’ll tell him,” He responded finally. “Can’t promise anything will come of it.”

“Depends how you tell him.” Dutch intoned. “Why don’t you extend him my invitation to play in the club. Don’t mention Micah yet, I’ll do the rest when he’s there.”

An unenthusiastic hum and Arthur turned his attention back to locating constellations. He couldn’t find Perseus, but after a good while searching thought he saw Ursa Major, and definitely heard a great bear’s roar. _Shit_... Slowly, he reached out with a hand and patted Dutch’s head, messing up his carefully brushed-back hair, thinking in the meanwhile how he missed the unkempt look, hadn’t seen it for a while… Anyway, bear noises took priority. 

“Hey, quit that...” Came the sleepy response and Dutch’s bewildered gaze was on him. Seeing Arthur’s concerned expression, he lowered his voice: “What is it?” 

“Think it’s a bear.”

He crouched towards his rifle and quickly checked if it was loaded, motioning for a now alert Dutch to come closer. Hopefully this time of the year the bear shouldn’t be too hungry, probably just curious. Various ominous sounds were heard a few more times, each time thankfully becoming a bit more defuse, until Arthur was finally able to exhale the breath he’d held for the past few minutes to address the other man, suggesting they should pitch a tent. 

“Take off your shirt and pants,” He said once they’d moved the bedrolls into the tent. “Our clothes probably stink of game blood and meat, should leave them out of the tent.”

Cold as it was, they decided to sleep in the same bedroll, draping the other one on top. He couldn’t tell with Dutch, who’d been eerily still, but he himself was too alert from the near-encounter to be able to sleep. 

“I’ve met someone interesting,” Arthur said after a spell of fidgeting, back finally resting against Dutch’s once they’d found a comfortable position to settle in. “A photographer.”

“Fellow from Cornwall? Didn’t you meet him a couple of years ago?”

Hmm, he’d reckoned Dutch should have forgotten Mason by now. They’d met only once or twice and he couldn’t imagine them frequenting the same circles. Unless Albert had a secretly kinky side to him... 

“That’s Trelawny. Mason’s from London,” He found himself explaining pointlessly before getting to the point. “Anyway, I’ve been seeing more of him recently. He’s very… sweet.” It wasn’t exactly a word he’d like to use to describe people, but it fit Albert quite well.

“How is he in bed?”

“Don’t know yet…” 

When Dutch made a confused rumbling noise, Arthur explained: “I’m telling you because I want you to know this is not a game.” They had their games alright, could even say the entire affair was one. Not always fun, but usually yes, very much so. Other people sometimes got mixed up in it; he didn’t want that for Mason. “He’s different from John. From us.”

“No doubt.”

“I don’t want to hurt him.” 

“Then you should ask yourself if he can satisfy you?”

Well, truth be told...

“In some ways, yes.” 

“If it’s just in some ways and not wholly, then you will hurt him. Be honest with yourself. A sweet guy like him would probably want something exclusive. Is that what you want?” 

Did he? Damn… There must have been something in Berlin air to make him change his attitude or maybe he was just getting old, he thought, before being distracted by Dutch’s yawn. It dawned on him that he liked it, the way Dutch could talk about these things without sounding jealous or possessive, as if they were talking about an abstract philosophical concept.

“Dutch…”

“Hmm…”

“I’m bored.” 

“Hmmmmm…”

Arthur sighed, pressing more of his weight against him for emphasis when he suspected Dutch was pretending to have fallen asleep, till he was proven wrong.

“Once upon a time,” Dutch began in a levelled voice than promised a long long story. “There was this young peasant called... Armin Martin who lost his-”

“What did he look like?”

“Handsome.”

“Details?”

He was informed that the lad had golden-blonde hair and all further requests were ignored. 

“Who lost a goat and went to look for it in the nearby forest-”

“Uhoh…”

“He followed the goat’s dung trail till he arrived at a dark, forbidding castle with high towers. The trail lead to a garden full of roses.”

That was one incontinent goat, Arthur thought.

“He found the goat eating the roses, almost half were gone already, and just as Armin got to the goat and picked it up-”

“What was the goat’s name?”

“Didn’t have one, was one goat out of many, nothing special. Anyway, he caught the scent of what was no doubt a collection of the most delicious food from an open window, and since he was always hungry, he dropped the goat and went inside where he found this lavish feast spread on a huge table…”

“Porridge?”

“Porridge too,” Came a gentle confirmation. “With cinnamon and honey and blueberries.”

 _Nice_ …

“There was no one about,” Dutch continued. “Not that Armin checked these things... And since he had no self-restraint whatsoever, he started digging the-”

“Dug in,” Arthur corrected him. 

“So he stuffed his big mouth with as much food as he could till he was full, and since he slept like a dog, half a day, sometimes more, he yawned and scratched his belly and headed upstairs, lulled into a trance by the invitation of gentle melodies beckoning him, and ended up in a bedchamber with a large bed. He got in and crept under the blankets-”

“Was it dusty?” Arthur questioned. “Cause old castles are usually...”

“No, this castle was sparkly clean.” Dutch verified after thinking for a moment. “And there was a fire in the room so it was warm and cozy.”

“But no servants around?”

“No.”

“Some sort of feudal utopia?”

Dutch sighed. “So… Since Armin was always horny, he didn’t sleep right away and started-” 

“Nah, don’t seem right. Bet he wasn’t always horny, just sometimes.”

“Arthur.” Dutch warned this time. “My story, my rules. You had your fun with your little comic about the adventures of Mr Holland.”

“ _Hosea_ liked it.”

“Hosea would, yes… It got pretty hot once he began wanking so he threw off the blankets…”

Arthur was going to ask why the man would wank when he could probably find some magical hole to fuck, but decided instead to continue the activity he had only recently started engaging in, i.e. exactly what the character in the story was doing. 

Meanwhile, Dutch went on with his tale: “Unbeknownst to Armin, the bedchamber wasn’t truly vacant. And he was in fact being watched by none other than the owner of the castle, a ferocious half-beast, half-man, known as-”

“Details, Dutch. Details…” Arthur hummed, leisurely palming his growing erection. “Was he magically turned into a beast? What type of beast? Boar? Bear?”

“No he’d always been like that.” Dutch explained, not bothering to answer the animal question. “As the beast watched on, he felt-”

“What was his name? You were going to say his name.”

“You missed the chance of learning his name by interrupting, my boy.” The storyteller informed him, then continued: “The beast felt a strange urge welling up inside him that hadn’t been there for a long, long time… A murmuring vibration all the way from the crown of his head down his spine, and his-”

“Did he have a big tail?”

“Yes. A very big tail.”

Arthur grunted contentedly, pulled on his length with more urgency, but still keeping the grip pretty relaxed. Dutch must have heard him then, the wet sound of him pleasuring himself, judging by the sudden pause. He swore he could hear him gulp and it felt like his voice had dropped an octave when he continued. 

“The beast contemplated whether he should interrupt and-”

“No.”

“No?”

He made a show of thinking. “No.” It felt unkind saying that. It felt good. Wanted it so much that it made self-denial all the more desirable. And, of course, denying Dutch was always, well...

“And pounce on the impertinent peasant,” Dutch went on, the timber of his voice coarser now, predatory almost. It made Arthur’s belly curl in excitement. “Pin him to the bed and fuck him till-”

“Dutch!” 

“Yes?” Dutch hissed in an equally angry growl.

“Details, for fuck’s sake…”

“Tell me then,” Much more collected now. “What precisely do you want to know?”

Arthur slowed down the hand motion. “What exactly does the club- sorry, castle master, imagine himself doing to the boy, for example, before and between pouncing and pinning, and after?”

Heard him chuckling, the deep sound drew out another dollop of precum from the slit. As Dutch resumed the narration in painstaking detail, Arthur could sense the addition of a faint but continuous stirring somewhere behind his elbow. Hmm...

“First, he imagined, he would have to move fast, take hold of the lad and turn him to his stomach before he had a chance to see him, or he’d be frightened out of his wits. Next, he’d lay his cock between the boy’s round pink cheeks, let it glide there a few moments, allowing the boy to understand what was wanted from him. All the while, he’d be pressing him down to the mattress with a hand latched to the nape of his neck, another holding his hips up. And since the boy was a lusty hussy at heart, he’d happily resign himself to his fate and spread his legs wide for his new master...” 

Dutch’s voice grew thicker, the words rougher the more the story advanced. Arthur could almost feel the vocal vibrations rippling through the skin of his back, and it did things to him… Such good things that he didn’t object at the strange turn of events in the story that had the Armin fellow so quickly surrender to some satyr. Then again, this was all happening in the beast’s imagination, before he even acted on anything. Then again, Dutch was probably getting close and didn’t have the patience to progress the story at a more deliberate pace, which was unlike him. Then again, he must be pretty worked up from lack of activity during the trip. So Arthur increased his tempo as well and by the time the lad was getting a good pounding in the beast’s estimation, he’d reached the point where he had to decide if he should let his climax crash over or back off and wait for a later, perhaps more intense gratification. 

Intensity be damned…

He bit his lower lip but the throaty moan he was aiming to suppress leaked through anyway, which made him clench his teeth more firmly till he could taste copper, eyes squeezed shut with the same ferocity, a euphoric shudder wracking through his frame as he spilled his seed, not caring where... Catching his breath, Arthur rested his still trembling back heavily against Dutch’s, a relaxed smile etched on his lips. He noticed the tale had ceased to continue, and could hear the other man’s staccato breathing pattern, sense a slight shivering against his shoulder blades. Seemed like he’d made the right decision. 

“Thanks, I liked the story.” 

Twisting his head to the left, he planted a quick peck on the nape of Dutch’s neck. 

“It’s not finished yet.”

“Save the rest for tomorrow night...” 

Arthur yawned, turned to curl back on his right side. In the space between listening happily to the pleasant sound of firewood crackling and falling asleep, he asked Dutch, in German, if he could fuck him if he started taking lessons again, and was delighted to hear a positive response, woefully unaware of the fact that he had in fact asked Dutch if he would fuck Arthur should he continue with his education...

**Author's Note:**

> Featured/inspirational music:
> 
> Tight Fittin’ Jeans - Conway Twitty  
> No Limit - 2 Unlimited  
> I Would Do Anything for Love - Meatloaf (cause I still love the video)
> 
> If anyone is curious to know what Uncle is listening to on his Walkman, it’s Madonna’s _Erotica_.


End file.
